


Gifts of the Summer Earth

by kashinoha



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gift Fic, Humor, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cards of Heaven and Hell are dealt in threes, and Clarke Griffin wants to tear her hair out in clumps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts of the Summer Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bitchdontstealmytardis](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Bitchdontstealmytardis).



> This is my Bellarke Valentines gift for bitchdontstealmytardis, who requested a one-shot! Hope you enjoy, and have a great Valentine's Day~

**Gifts of the Summer Earth**

All characters © Jason Rothenberg

 

For a while on Earth, it’s all “whatever the hell we want:” no curfews, no shouts of, “No running in the corridors!” No Floating. No rules.

There are Laws, though. Clarke likes to think of them with a capital “L” in her mind. There’s Murphy’s Law. There’s the Law of Karma (that one’s a biggie). But perhaps the most infuriating law that Earth, this beautiful, volatile ball of liquids, solids, and gases has shown them is the Law of Threes.

First comes the sunburn. Long ago (or at least it seems like it) one hundred of them had pushed open their metal cage as pallid, weak things, gifts to be browned by the sun. For some the sun has done more than brown; Clarke is soon mashing paste for kids rendered blistered and peeling from their distant star. Jasper worriedly voices concerns that radiation has fried a good part of their greenhouse gases, but Clarke assures him that people are just being careless. The burns make their skin tender and red like the raw meat they skin off rabbits and foxes.

It hurts like a bitch.

The kids start using the mint plant they grind for toothpaste to treat the burns and soon run short. Clarke sends parties out to find more, which leads to the incident of Finn tricking Murphy into using a certain three-leafed red and green plant to wipe his ass. Surprising, yes, but even Finn cannot win _that_ thumb-wrestle against Karma.

Second is the hay fever. A lush new planet with radioactive super-pollen proves too much even for their genetically superior senses. The second hand embarrassment of watching Bellamy Blake sneeze his way through one of his speeches is a little more than Clarke can bear, and they don’t really have any tissues down here. That adds a whole other ick factor that frays even Clarke’s iron-coated nerves.

So yeah, the cards of Heaven and Hell deal disasters in threes, and by the time July comes around (according to the tally makers they have been keeping to track the days) Clarke Griffin wants to tear her hair out in clumps. She holds her breath for the third and final plague, because she knows it will happen soon. What she doesn’t know is that it is already upon them, smaller than a dime, feeding secretly in the dark.

Clarke’s impending dread soon fades in the face of larger issues, preparing for the rainy season among them. The days stretch longer, shadows thin like chewing gum in the late setting sun, and the buzz of cicadas hum their droning symphonies into the dusk. The summer nights become warm and sated, calming the warmongering appetites of the Grounders and providing a sense of peace, however temporary.

 

\--

 

The site of Monty walking around camp slathered in mud should have raised questions, if any of them had been smart enough to ask about it. Especially since one, Monty rarely leaves camp and that mud on him is the unmistakable moist black mud of the west river, and two, Jasper starts doing the same thing a week later.

It isn’t until Raven starts covering her bare arms in drying, caking mud that people start to notice, which says something in and of itself that Clarke does not like to think about too hard. Then again, it is not so surprising that Raven is next on the list after the Monty-Jasper duo. Monty’s made a habit of stopping by to chat physics with Raven whenever he’s bored and Jasper, who is smarter than he looks and acts, can be seen flirting with Raven by means of chemical formulae and organic compounds (which, in his mind, acts as some bizarre form of foreplay).

Clarke does a double take as she brushes back the folds of Raven’s tent. They have all made their peace with the dirt and grime, but this presents itself on a whole new level. Even for Raven, who has littered her work table with little flecks of gray-black mud. As Clarke watches, her elbows grind into the flecks and the flecks become dust.

“Raven,” she begins.

Raven nods in her direction, barely looking up from her…whatever it is. Clarke thinks it’s part of a barometer. “’Sup?”

“Is there any reason you’re—“Clarke frowns as Raven lifts her forearm and more speckles of dirt rain down on the table—“covered in mud?”

“What?” Raven looks at her arms and grins when she realizes what Clarke is so confused about. “Oh, yeah, it was Monty’s idea,” she replies. “Helps the bug bites.”

“Really?” Clarke peers at the dried mud. “It looks kind of unsanitary.”

“Dirty as hell, but it does wonders for the itching,” Raven says, shrugging.

Clarke, who has several bites lining her calves and ankles herself, considers. “The west river?” she guesses, looking at the mud. Raven nods.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Clarke says, and turns to leave.

“Spread the word,” Raven calls as Clarke closes the flaps to her tent. “We’ve all got ‘em, you know. Damned mosquito buffet.”

Raven has a point, Clarke thinks as she spots Bellamy by the tool shed slapping irritably at what looks like a seriously nasty bite on the outside of his elbow. Sensing her gaze, Bellamy looks up and Clarke nods at him to follow.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

“Come with me,” Clarke says in lieu of an answer. Bellamy raises an eyebrow but nonetheless falls into stride with her as she heads toward the gates.

Once they are outside the walls Clarke rolls up the cuffs of her pants. “We’re going to the west river,” she tells Bellamy. “I need some ointment.”

“Ointment?” Bellamy squints. “And you need me for that?”

She gives him a look that says _Really?_ “I need to test it,” she replies.

“Great,” Bellamy grumbles, stepping over a log. He is not in the best of moods, in no small part due to the stings and bites peppering his arms, shoulder blades, and those infuriating ones on the back of his neck that are a pain in the ass to reach. They are hot and throbbing in the summer heat, itching and prickling as his sweat rolls over them.

Once they arrive at the riverbank Clarke shimmies off her boots and socks, toes wiggling in delight at the fresh, if muggy air, and wades into the river. She leaves a silvery trail of ripples behind her. Hair swirling over one shoulder as she turns back to face him, she calls, “Come here.”

Bellamy, who is standing with his hands on his hips at the shore, frowns. The two of them have certainly come far from _“And why would I do that?”_ , but he’s forgone his socks in the summer heat and he really does not fancy walking in his shoes with wet feet.

“Bellamy.”

With a resigned slump of his shoulders he too kicks off his shoes and joins her in the shallow water. It reaches her waist, his thighs. Clarke has wet, black mud running through her fingers and is looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

“Take off your shirt,” she says softly.

His brow raises. “Excuse me?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “The bugs seem to like you,” she says. “Don’t know why you’re so special, since we all have the same blood type, but this mud is supposed to help.”

“You know you could have told me to take it off _before_ I got in the water,” Bellamy says, but he slips off his faded tee and ties it haphazardly around his head in an odd, floppy-looking bandana. Clarke bites her lower lip against a smile. Bellamy bends down and scoops up some clay-like mud, slathering it thick and clumpy over the bites on his arms. It feels wonderfully cool. His eyes fall shut. “Fuck, that’s good,” he sighs.

Unfortunately, the bites on his back are less easily reached. Bellamy tries to maneuver behind him and curses some more when he comes up unsuccessful.

Clarke, who can’t help but stare at the way Bellamy’s muscles stretch and flex as he moves, gathers two handfuls of mud and draws up behind him.

“Allow me,” she says.

Bellamy falls silent as Clarke smoothes mud over his back. Her fingers, small and slim, trace patterns down the nape of his neck, along his spine, pausing at his ribs. There are scars. Some of them are old, nothing more than puckered skin in shapes like arrows and comets, while others are shiny, newer. She covers them all with mud.

For a while there is nothing but the calm splashes of river water and the soft puffs of her breath against his back. Bellamy listens to her breathe, realizing that that alone satisfies him. When Clarke breathes in Bellamy feels like the gravity holding galaxies together could fall apart. He thinks about souls.

Slathering muck and grime on each other should have been silly, but Bellamy instead finds it meditative and oddly sensual. Clarke covers the last of his bites and gently pats the thicker layers of mud down even. Her hands fall away and Bellamy drinks in the quiet because it might not happen again for a while. From somewhere distant, a bird cries.

Then Clarke breaks the moment by hurling a handful of mud at his back.

“What the—” Bellamy wipes an errant splatter off his cheek. “Jesus, Clarke!”

“Sorry,” she says. She does not look too sorry. “Thought you might have fallen asleep.”

“Standing up?”

She shrugs. “You’ve done it before.”

With a grimace (he tastes dirt in his mouth) he says, “Yeah, thanks.” Not wanting to ruin the drying mud on his back and chest, he uses his bare foot to scrounge up some of it from the river floor.

Clarke frowns, watching Bellamy pack a sopping gray mudball together in his hands. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“You’ve got bites too,” he replies, and there it is, that infernal smirk turning the corners of his lips up like devil’s horns. Clarke’s nostrils flare.

“You wouldn’t.”

Bellamy’s smile is positively impish. “I would.”

“No, Bellamy—wait— _no—“_

“Incoming.”

Ten minutes later the two of them do not resemble people so much as wet pottery. The river jitters with calming ripples and for the love of the Chancellor this is going to take weeks to get out from under their nails.

And yet, Clarke would much rather have clay under her nails than blood.

“So? Will you admit it?” Bellamy tries to grin without getting dirt in his mouth, fails, and spits oh so elegantly into the water. His makeshift bandanna is spattered and limp over his hair.

Clarke stares into his eyes, ready to argue, and for a moment gets drawn into that nebulous pull that his eyes seem to hold. Black supernova pupils with rings of dark russet surrounding them—she’s never met anyone with eyes quite like Bellamy’s. She stares and feels herself being devoured whole. She doesn’t fight it.

“Fine. This does help,” Clarke grits out.

“Hey, it was your idea to bring me along,” Bellamy says. “And you’ve got to admit, hurling mud at people is a _fantastic_ stress reliever.”

They flop back to shore like something out of the Black Lagoon and Clarke thinks about spirits while Bellamy thinks about souls beside her. They think about energy consumed, dust storms, the cicadas and the whippoorwills of a late afternoon.

Clarke thinks about the Law of Threes and decides not to give up on Earth just yet. In time, it could become their home.

And on that hot summer day, time is all theirs. They have forever.

Because each soul has the life cycle of a star.

 

_End._

 


End file.
